Draining
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Lengthy cases are always draining, and this one seems endless.


A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: _He's been working on a tiring case for a while, and he's just going to push off his physical needs for a little while longer, he promises..._  
_Then he goes to bed for a few hours and he wakes up half a day later._  
_Basically, I want a fic where he DOESN'T manage to put aside his physical needs for long enough, and has to try and solve the case despite being tired as fuck and incredibly fatigued._  
_Preferably something cute, not horribly depressing...? This prompt could go in a lot of ways and I'm prompting it because I need a pick-me-up over my shame about having crashed several WEEKS early (apparently working past a high fever leaves one a little tired out) and I need some catharsis and encouragement.  
_

* * *

_Draining_

The problem was abstruse and its solution promised to be complicated. But that was to be expected, given that he was the only one to deduce the connection between several recent shipping heists: not only was the same group responsible for all of them, that group must be tied to Moriarty in some way.

Lestrade had come to Holmes that morning about a shipload of wine that disappeared in transit-which is to say, the casks remained on board but their contents proved to be water rather than wine-and in reviewing recent newspapers for what was being said about the incident he noticed other reports of cargo and packages not arriving at their destinations.

Clipping the articles, arranging them, and pondering their import was the work of a few hours, and at the end of that time he was convinced that he had just seized upon another thread that would lead to Moriarty.

An entire fortnight of prowling around the docks in various guises brought him no closer to any answers, even to the original case that had gotten him onto the scent. He had gotten only so far as determining that the casks had been switched either just before they were loaded onto the ship in France-the inspection of the contents having occurred before the cargo was loaded-or while they were being unloaded in London, before the merchant receiving the delivery inspected his goods. So far as Holmes could determine, the wine was not in any of the usual places near the London docks, which meant it might never have left the ship or it never left France. But he lacked sufficient evidence to draw a firm conclusion on that point.

That he was still so far from a resolution was not acceptable, not to mention he had found utterly no proof of the near-certain connection to Moriarty's gang. Complicating the matter was the fact that his witnesses (and/or suspects) came and went with the ships.

So he thought harder, ranged wider, was out and about at all hours of the day without regard for sleep or meals. When he began to grow weak and weary, he took a dose of cocaine and perhaps a bite to eat and was off again in minutes to follow up on a new thought or another lead. Periodically he allowed himself a nap and a full meal, but those occasions became more infrequent the longer he worked on the case.

About a month after Lestrade's visit, Holmes heard word that the first ship to have suffered a loss of cargo would be returning the next afternoon. He knew this was his chance to discover which of the crew had been aboard at the time of the crime and how much they knew about those who only sailed for that one journey-Holmes had obtained the crew manifests for every affected vessel within two days of the start of his investigation, but suspected several of the names were false.

He returned to his rooms to rest and eat and formulate his disguise. He intended to pose as a dockworker and insinuate himself into the company of the sailors, and for that he must look the part. Fortunately he did not need to worry much about hiding his face; it had been some weeks since he'd bothered to shave and his slight beard served very well to disguise his features.

Holmes was at the docks well before dawn and managed to get himself assigned to the crew that would be unloading the ship when it arrived with the first tide.

The ship remained for four days, being in need of a few minor repairs. Holmes spent almost every hour of every day in the company of the sailors, retiring to his bolt-hole nearest the docks for a few hours while they slept. For himself, it was far more likely that he would spend those precious hours pacing with his pipe and pondering the information he had gleaned during the day than that he would be sleeping.

The sailors confirmed that there had been a pair on board during the one voyage that had left upon their arrival in England, and amongst the lot of them Holmes managed to develop a reasonable description of the two men posing as sailors. Time well spent, in other words, though he would not be sorry to see them leave so he could also depart; his relentless efforts of the past weeks were beginning to catch up with him and he could almost feel his mind growing sluggish.

Finally the ship was loaded and it departed with the tide in the early afternoon five days after it had arrived. Holmes slipped away at the first opportunity and headed to Baker Street on foot, as it would not be in character for a dockworker to hail a cab. He could have dropped the guise once he was sufficiently far from the river, but the exertion kept him awake and he spent the time of the walk in contemplation.

The afternoon was half gone by the time Holmes crawled into his bed, not bothering to change out of his clothes or even take off his shoes. Some sleep was just the thing, and then he would make use of the descriptions to continue his investigation.

He woke with a start, his heart racing. He remained still while his eyes darted about the room to determine the cause of his waking. The light outside the window was either dying or growing and so extensive was his disorientation that he could not determine which it was based on sight alone. The weariness still dragging at his eyelids and tying his stomach into knots suggested the light was dying, meaning he'd only been asleep for a few hours. That would explain the disorientation.

Then came the sound of insistent knocking upon the sitting room door and thus was solved the question of what woke him. He stumbled out of bed and across the sitting room, throwing open the door-which he'd forgotten to lock-just as Mrs. Hudson was apologizing to Lestrade that she really had thought Mr. Holmes was at home. "Yes?" he rasped, and both of them stared at him, seemingly dumbfounded.

After a moment of stunned silence, Mrs. Hudson said uncertainly, "Mr. Holmes, are you quite all right?"

Only then did Holmes realize how he must look to them, unshaven and unkempt. "I have been in disguise at the docks," he said dismissively. "What is it, Lestrade?"

"Another theft was attempted during the night, but it was interrupted. One of the ship's crew is dead and another is missing," Lestrade said.

Even in his impaired state Holmes immediately recognized this was important. It also meant he'd been wrong about how much time had elapsed while he slept; it was morning, not evening, and still he felt like he hadn't slept in days.

He gestured for Lestrade to come in. "You must tell me all of the details on the way. Allow me a few minutes to change and I will go with you." He paused mid-way to his bedroom and turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Might I have a cup of that coffee I smell?"

"Certainly," she said agreeably. Holmes retreated to his bedroom as she was asking Lestrade if he wanted some coffee as well.

A change of clothes, a wet cloth on his face, a damp comb through his hair, and he felt a little more himself despite the lack of time to shave.

Lestrade was nearly done with his coffee when Holmes reappeared; Holmes drank his down in a few gulps and they headed out. The details Lestrade provided in the cab convinced Holmes that the police weren't correctly interpreting the evidence-as usual-but he held his tongue.

The scene at the dock was everything Holmes needed it to be, and met his expectations based on Lestrade's story. The dead man exactly matched the description of one of the men who had been working aboard the affected ships. What's more, there was conclusive evidence of additional men present at the time of the altercation: London-based accomplices, which meant the missing cargo was in London rather than abroad.

Holmes spent quite some time examining the scene in minute detail while Lestrade and his men worked the surrounding dock areas and the ship itself. The ship's crew had been ordered to remain aboard following the incident, with the exception of two: the dead man and his partner.

It took him longer than usual to connect all of the threads that he'd been following with the new information and he was frequently distracted by a persistent cold feeling and a queasiness, but he persisted until he had drawn his conclusions.

When he was convinced he had the details straight, he rattled off the narrative to a frantically writing Lestrade, starting with the description of the second suspect, that the second suspect had killed the first in a disagreement over whether to take more than they had been instructed to-which meant there was someone commanding their actions-and that the two had accomplices in London who helped carry away the loot and hide it. He also listed the aliases the pair had worked under, along with the general area in which the living suspect was likely to be found.

Once he'd imparted all he could, he turned to leave. Lestrade caught his arm. "You won't help with the arrest?"

"I have already told you where to find the man and he will lead you to the goods. Why would I do any more?"

"I only thought you'd want to finish off the case since you've been working on it all this time."

Holmes waved him off dismissively. "The case is not finished so long as those giving the orders go free. The man you will arrest is insignificant."

Lestrade nodded and tucked his notebook into his pocket. "If he gives up any information about his boss, I'll let you know."

"He won't," Holmes said simply as he left.

He didn't remember the journey back to Baker Street. Once in his bed he had a moment of panic that he'd gotten it all wrong and Lestrade would mock him for it, but what he could recall of his reasoning seemed sound. He didn't have long to fret before he fell into the profound sleep of the utterly exhausted.

At one point he seemed to wake and found Watson bending over him, but even as he recognized his friend he dismissed it as a dream. Watson wasn't there, couldn't be there. It was just his overworked mind conjuring a familiar and comforting figure to soothe him back to sleep.

When he surfaced the second time, he was able to recognize that he was awake, though he suspected it wouldn't be for long. The rosy light of sunset bathed the edges of his window not covered by the drapes-which he was fairly certain he hadn't closed-and there were voices in the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson and Watson, discussing a meal. How very typical.

Holmes was starting to drift to sleep again when he remembered with a jolt that Watson no longer resided with him. Why was he here? Paying a visit? But why?

Then the object of his fevered speculation entered the room. "Holmes," Watson said cheerfully.

"Why are you here?" Holmes asked dumbly, cringing internally at the ignorance he was confessing by asking that question.

"Mrs. Hudson sent for me when she couldn't wake you," Watson answered, holding a cup of tepid water to Holmes lips and waiting patiently as he sipped carefully. "But don't worry, there's nothing wrong with you that sleep won't cure."

"I see," Holmes murmured when he'd finished drinking, already starting to slip back into slumber.

"I'll stay until you're back on your feet," Watson assured him, and it was the last thing he was aware of for some time.

When he roused the third time, he felt refreshed and quite ready to quit his bed. As he sat up, his eyes fell upon the water pitcher beside his bed and he realized his throat was parched.

Two glasses of water later, his thirst was quenched and he slowly stood, mindful that he had just spent an unknown amount of time in bed. His dressing gown was draped over the foot of his bed, so he pulled it on and ventured into the sitting room.

The blinds were open to let the light in and Watson was seated at the desk before the window, writing. The mantelpiece clock indicated it was nearly eleven o'clock. Holmes stood in front of the fire a moment, hesitating.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson said, setting down his pen and rising from his chair. He opened the sitting room door and called down to Mrs. Hudson, who quickly responded that she would be up shortly. "Mrs. Hudson is bringing tea and toast to tide you over until luncheon is ready," Watson explained after he'd closed the door again.

In normal circumstances, Holmes might have protested, but his stomach was growling and gurgling and toast might just help. "How long was I asleep?"

"Quite a while. It's been two days since Lestrade called on you about the murder, but you did wake occasionally here and there, so you didn't sleep the whole time. And I may have helped you go back to sleep a time or two," Watson admitted.

"Of course you did," Holmes said dryly. He retrieved his cigarette case from the mantelpiece and lit one, his fingers trembling slightly, then turned to the pile of newspapers and correspondence that Watson had left on his armchair. Very little of the mail was of any interest, so most of it was relegated to the fire. His cigarette butt followed, and he was deciding whether to have another when Mrs. Hudson arrived with the tea tray.

"I am glad to see you looking better, Mr. Holmes," she said, setting her burden on the table.

"Thank you."

"I'll just leave you to it, then. Luncheon will be up at the usual time."

If there was anything that Holmes appreciated about Mrs. Hudson, it was her ability to appear-or disappear-at the appropriate time. Watson, too, had a knack for knowing when silence was desired, and so the good doctor returned to his writing and did not attempt to draw Holmes into conversation while he was munching the toast and skimming the papers.

Only when Holmes rose to retrieve his pipe did Watson ask about the case. They were the usual sort of questions, but Holmes found he did not have the patience to answer them, not while the person or persons behind the plot remained unknown to him.

Finally, he said brusquely, "Really, Watson, if you have read the papers you know as much as I will tell."

Watson crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. "If that were true, it would not bother you so. The culprit has been captured, some of the goods recovered, and the rest of them are being traced. You are responsible for all of that, at the expense of your own health, and yet you behave as if the final piece of the puzzle hasn't fallen into place."

Holmes leaned against the mantelpiece and waited to see if Watson would take his reasoning to its logical conclusion.

"It's not over yet, is it?" Watson asked finally.

Holmes met his questioning gaze and quirked a smile. "You have got it at last," he said. "The pair of thieves were taking orders from someone and I am convinced it relates to a web of crime I have been working for months to uncover."

"And you intend to continue your efforts until that web is revealed and unraveled."

"Precisely so."

Watson was silent for a moment. "All I ask is that you remember I am still at your disposal, should you require my assistance or my revolver. No matter the hour, you can call upon me."

"Good old Watson," Holmes said fondly.

Watson rose and came to stand before him. "I'd also ask that you pause occasionally to eat and sleep, but we both know you cannot promise that," he said ruefully.

Holmes laughed. "I can promise I will try."

Watson grinned. "That will have to do."

* * *

_It was with some surprise ... that I saw him walk into my consulting-room upon the evening of April 24th. It struck me that he was looking even paler and thinner than usual._

_"Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely," he remarked, in answer to my look rather than to my words..._

_The Final Problem_, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


End file.
